


Charmed, I'm Sure!

by DixieDale



Category: The Girl from U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-24 17:40:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19728559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Charm.  Waverly had his Old World sort of charm, when he chose to use it, and they had a few others around with a similar talent, if in a different mode.  And, of course they were used to Napoleon Solo dishing out his own particular recipe.  Now, though, UNCLE New York was literally awash in charm, of one variety or another and most of those on the premises were proving susceptible.  In the end, even April Dancer was charmed.  Well, so to speak.





	Charmed, I'm Sure!

**Author's Note:**

> The backstory as to how April got that bracelet that came so in handy in the Cooperstown entry in the Travel Guide.

Charm. Mr. Waverly certainly had his share, of the Old World variety, though he was very discriminating as to whom he deigned to lavish it on. Quietly regal Doris Maheney, now in charge of the employees in Communications after that debacle with Louise Douglas proved someone needed to fulfil that role other than the aloof and oft-elsewhere Corbin Masters, was known for her own warm and gracious variety. (Unless you violated her professional code, then, of course, charm was NOT what you were dealing with.) Of course they were used to Napoleon Solo dishing out his own particular recipe hither and yon amongst the female employees. 

Now, though, UNCLE New York was literally awash in charm. Illya, Napoleon, Mark, indeed most of the personnel, all fell prey to it, in one manner or another. In the end, even April Dancer was 'charmed'. Well, so to speak.

Yet, when, IF, you had asked most of the people in Headquarters whether they'd felt it had been an utterly charming experience, they'd have looked at you like you had gone round the bend.

Yes, it had been a memorable few days, no one would argue that. It wasn't every day UNCLE Headquarters New York was the host for a group of, well, no one (except a privileged few, and them only after the fact) was overly sure who they were a group OF, but Waverly had said "make them welcome, give them access to all areas not prohibited by Security regulations", so they must be damned important somebodies, whoever the heck they were. 

Still, despite all the discussion, all the theories put forth, no one could come up with a truly satisfactory explanation for the presence of these outsiders, so everyone tried to shrug and get back to business. Unfortunately, that wasn't as easy as it sounded, and most of those the visitors encountered tried to get at least SOME idea of who they were, the purpose of their visit.

They were unsuccessful. Whether the visitors were fellow UNCLE members, or from some other organization was never clarified, and any questions of that nature were deftly turned aside. Oh, never rudely, of course; in fact, the response was made with such grace and aplomb as to make it appear it was the questioner who had somehow made a social misstep, an embarrassing faux pas that the other was kindly pretending hadn't happened. You know, a little more than using the wrong fork at a formal dinner, a little less than commenting unfavorably on the appearance of the woman in that purple dress only to find she is your hostess.

Of course, whoever the visitors were, it was the considered opinion of many that they'd have been better off inviting a Thrush delegation to visit and giving them free rein, for all confusion and angst, bad feelings and resentments, not to mention the injuries (emotional if not physical) involved in this 'friendly' visit. Well, maybe not Thrush, more like KAOS perhaps.

No one said that to Mr. Waverly, of course, especially since he was the one who'd extended the invitation, but that didn't mean it wasn't being said in the hallways and the offices and the file rooms and the cafeteria and many other places. Actually a great MANY things were being said in all those places.

Six people had arrived, being introduced as 'the Borland delegation'. The leader, Karl Borland, a tall man with wavy steel-gray hair and of indeterminate age, was suave, debonair, with a warm and ever-so-charming smile that Napoleon Solo took one look at and decided to incorporate just a touch of that special something into his own repertoire. With those distinguished looks and that bespoke suit that probably cost what any six of Solo's did (and Napoleon did not skimp on his sartorial furnishings), not to mention the dashing moustache, he would have caught your eye in a crowded embassy ballroom like a shot.

The other three men were rather non-descript; in fact, you'd have had trouble picking them out of any standard lineup. Only their guest badges distinguished them from many of the UNCLE employees you'd meet in the various departments and in the hallways and in the cafeteria. Off the rack suits, nothing extreme, pretty much what most of the men around Headquarters were wearing. Along with their tidy haircuts, serious if bland looks on their faces, your eye just sort of drifted over them to land on the more flamboyant two members. The only comments those three men got was a knowing chuckle from the male rank and file, like recognizing like. 

"Well, you can see the pay differential between management and worker bee runs the same just about anywhere," Chivers in Accounting remarked ruefully, glancing down at his on-sale, final clearance, year-end marked down suit, realizing the man with mousy blond hair had on its twin.

As much as those three men were alike, the two women were as different as night and day. Ms. Margrete Larsen was about, well, it was hard to tell how old Ms. Larsen was. She was one of the subdued, slightly anxious, slightly hunch-shouldered types, dressed in a wash dress of an odd shade of blue that made her skin turn quite sallow, and those huge glasses covering faded hazel eyes seemed to act as a shield against any intrusion. She'd kept her head ducked during any introductions, just nodding in a jerking motion, extending her hand only if prodded. Otherwise both hands were clutched to her purse as if worried someone might snatch it from her.

So, one swan king and four attendants, seemingly chosen for their non-competitiveness. Even the men's names blended into the background - William, Leon, Evan.

But that left the last member of the delegation, and if Borland was an elegant swan king, the lovely Ingaborg Jensen was equally outstanding. You might say words failed to adequately describe her, though it's amazing the number (and variety) of words that the UNCLE personnel used in an attempt to do so.

Ah, the lovely Ingaborg! Now she was the one who made such an immediate and lasting impression on the men and women of UNCLE New York. Oh, eventually ALL of the delegation did, in their own way, but in the beginning, it was Ingaborg, and in the memories of those present, she certainly reigned supreme.

Tall, 5' 10" at least, with silky platinum hair bound in a coronet, crystal blue eyes, the kind of thick, long eyelashes usually only gifted (most unfairly) to certain men, lips that would have made the poets go into raptures, a figure that would have had some of the finest painters dashing madly for canvas and brushes and paints. Add to that her graceful assumption of the wares of some of Europe's finest dress designers, and you could truly say she was sumptuous.

While all six members were introduced around, somehow, once the group passed on, Ingaborg was the one everyone remembered, the one everyone discussed. Borland soon made himself scarce, closeting himself with Waverly. Margrete and the men faded into oblivion, and were the truth to be told, very few even took note of their appearance or their activities. The lovely Ingaborg truly kept all eyes, and all minds, totally on her. She drew attention the way an open jar of strawberry jam drew bees, or perhaps the way Lady Godiva had, her and her horse.

She was unerringly gracious to the women, certainly doing nothing to overtly earn their antipathy. Well, not immediately, and not directly TO them, anyway. Yet, except for a few scattered exceptions, antipathy, deep gut-level antipathy, was exactly the response she got from the female contingent. They were polite, of course, not wanting to risk Waverly's wrath, but it was the formal and chill politeness you might extend to your husband's mistress should you meet inadvertently at a royal christening.

The impact she was having on the men at Headquarters certainly played into the reaction she was getting. Even for the women who had no real personal interest in their male colleagues, there was just something annoying about the visitor's assumption that every man would, of course, be at her feet and at her beck and call. The fact that that assumption seemed to be, for the most part, justified didn't help matters any. The sight of her pulling out a cigarette and having half-a-dozen men stumble over each other in an effort to be the one to offer her a light was most edifying, and most annoying.

To the men, she was an enigma, both cool and professional but giving off steady pulsing levels of sexual appeal and promise that sent their masculine instincts into overdrive. Though there were, as with the women, a few rare exceptions, most of the men were acting either like overly-hormonal teenagers, medieval courtiers, or aging roues, depending on their personalities and abilities. 

Peterson in Translations, for example, was making an utter fool of himself, and considering the competition he had in that arena, that was saying something. That suit he came in wearing the day after the lady in question had been introduced to him? It probably hadn't been out of his closet since, well, for a goodly number of double-digit years, if you could gauge by the style and the heavy scent of mothballs.

Waverly had been welcoming, gracious to her, every inch a gentleman, not encroaching but certainly most attentive, even inviting her to tea that first day, to lunch the second. (He'd extended no such invitations to Ms. Larsen, and indeed Ms. Larsen would have probably declined in a rush of panic had he done so.)

He was well aware there would have been hell to pay if Lisa Rogers had been there, about the tea, the lunch, and a great deal else, but he had planned this visit very carefully to coincide with his secretary's trip to Brussels. It didn't pay to annoy his secretary/assistant past a certain point; far better she was somewhere else during this time.

He'd purposefully not mentioned Borland and Ingaborg's presence to his wife, Miriam, either. Miriam had encountered both of them before and had not been favorable impressed. 

Well, Miriam, while most accommodating and understanding in a remarkable number of ways, and he truly was grateful for that, still she did have her sore spots, and he'd learned to be chary of poking at any of those heedlessly. There was that bit of advice she'd gotten once from an unnamed friend, something about 'you tuck a roll of coin in the fist, keep your thumb on the outside, and aim for the nuts; works a pip, it does, every time!' While he deplored the exceedingly common verbiage, as well as the accent she'd assumed when she repeated that little bit of wisdom, there was just something in her eye that told him she'd taken those words to heart.

***  
Now, the delegation hadn't just arrived out of the blue. They'd had prior warning. Prior to the arrival of the delegation the Old Man had called in his Section and Department Heads, giving them their instructions to extend every courtesy to their guests, as well as perhaps differing instructions to four of his Section II agents. 

Mark Slate and April Dancer arrived in answer to their summons just in time to see Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin leaving Waverly's office. Napoleon was smiling in eager anticipation, Illya was developing a hearty scowl on his face. 

"Trouble, mate?" Mark asked. Illya usually presented an impassive face, not this openly disapproving one.

Kuryakin snorted, "it depends on your interpretation, I suppose. And perhaps your instructions, your assignment will be different than ours. Certainly for April, anyway," sending a scrutinizing glance at the young woman in the mod outfit. He wasn't sure that shade of turquoise would have suited many women, but April seemed to carry it off quite well. With the dash of clear lemon yellow and accents of glossy black, against her fair skin and auburn hair, she looked like a tropical flower. He decided that while the style wasn't his favorite, overall he approved of the general impression. 

"You look particularly lovely today, April," Napoleon purred, getting a roll of the eyes from Illya and Mark, and a polite if slightly reserved smile from April Dancer. From one of the other two, she would have considered that remark to be a compliment; from the dapper senior agent, it was more pro forma. 

{"Like dropping a penny into a slot. An attractive woman comes within sight, the charm starts to flow. The fact that it seems to be interchangeable, whoever the woman, doesn't seem to be annoying to the other women around here, but I must say, I find it uninspiring."

"I was just about to say the same, April. Most becoming," Illya offered, getting a surprised look from the others. Well, he wasn't much given to lauding anyone with compliments of that sort.

{"Yes, quite different than what Napoleon delivered,"} April laughed to herself, considering those words from Illya to be a true compliment from someone usually so reserved.

Now, with Mark, sometimes, quite often in fact, the compliment was given out loud, but even when it wasn't, she could always tell by his eyes whether she'd hit the mark or somehow missed it. It was rarely the latter, but on occasion it did happen. That outfit he'd said made her look like a box of afterdinner mints, that had been one; he'd even admitted "it makes my teeth ache, April!". Oh, and there was that black dress with the absolutely huge white spots, and the white leather belt that was so wide it went from below her breasts to her hipbones; he'd winced and shaken his head, telling her quite firmly, "no, April. Please, just, no!" 

The first she had kept for next Spring, thinking he'd perhaps think differently by then. Even afterdinner mints had their occasional place in things, after all. The second she'd given way on and dropped in the donations box of the local charity shop. Pity, she'd rather liked it, but when he had elaborated that it made her look like his head felt after his last over-indulgence with a gin bottle, she decided she'd give him the benefit of the doubt. Though also deciding she should perhaps keep a better eye on her partner. That hangover had been a direct result of something she should have recognized, even if they'd only been partnering for a few weeks at that time, should have stepped in and offered him some other, more benign means of dealing with the situation than a large bottle of Gordon's or whatever he had reached for.

The two partners sat in Waverly's office, trying to make sense of their instructions, but despite several questions, mostly brushed impatiently aside with a brusque frown of annoyance by their superior, still came away bewildered as to what was going on. 

"If he's worried they're up to something, why let them in here in the first place?" Mark puzzled. "Why give them the run of the place?"

No, Waverly hadn't actually SAID any of that, but that was the only reason he could think of for their very odd assignment.

"And, if as he says, he's giving Napoleon and Illya instructions to charm and distract Ingaborg, why is he giving US instructions to step in the way of those efforts? To run interference, so to speak. And what about the rest of the delegation?"

"Well, you know he said for us to mind our own job, he has others working on that aspect. I have to say, April, I'm beginning to wish that Madrid job had taken longer, kept us in the field til this lot was packed up and gone."

And April didn't disagree, not then, certainly not as the days progressed. Still, it was beyond tiresome watching Ingaborg sway though Headquarters, creating first distraction and then far more.

And as unimpressed as she was with Ingaborg, well, frankly she'd been only superficially impressed with Karl Borland, and not favorably either. His smile, when he was introduced to her, was a little too reptilian for her taste, his hand moved a little too suggestively over hers, his fingertips caressing her wrist when he placed that very Continental kiss to the back of her hand. She had the feeling that, no matter his suave appearance and manner, he'd be better suited to the park and wearing a raincoat, all ready to reveal far more than any onlooker might want to see. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the thought, but could find no problem with her assessment.

Funny, that, when so many of the other women seemed to become a little short of breath when the man got that close to them. Perhaps, though, her reaction to Borland was similar to her reaction to when Napoleon went into charming mode, though at least Napoleon had the sense not to do more than tease at it with her. Somehow, even from the beginning, he knew it didn't have the usual effect on her, in fact, quite the opposite.

"You don't find him romantic, Miss Dancer? He's like King Arthur, in 'Camelot', there at the end; I thought so the moment I saw him, the moment he spoke," Maddy from Wardrobe sighed. "You know, a strong, even noble man, wounded by adversity, and love gone wrong, epic betrayal - and yet, still having the magnificence of spirit to hold his head high and . . ." 

Maddy stopped, seeing the incredulous look April was giving her. Well, the other women in the room certainly agreed with Maddy, the way they were nodding their heads in mute understanding.

As for April, she stared at Maddy, then at the others, then firmed her lips. 

"Ladies, may I remind you that you are professionals? This is not a Broadway play, an opera, or a romance novel, this is UNCLE New York and hardly the place for mooning over some stranger. Remember your dignity! Remember your responsibilities!"

They'd looked at her rather reproachfully as she left, but she strode out, head high, back straight. 

{"King Arthur??! Raincoat Willie is more like it! What on earth is wrong with them??!"}

And as for the lovely Ingaborg and her shenanigans! 

Martha Bowman, Head of Translations, had brought Security running with her shrieks of pure outrage upon finding Ingaborg and Ralph Jenkins, of the Atmospheric Research Department, in the break room that sat at the back of the two departments. 

Well, no one really blamed Martha. Never mind her and Ralph being a steady item for the past five years, the workers ate at that table, for heaven's sake!!! Ralph had turned scarlet and dashed for someplace more private to adjust his wardrobe. Rumor was that Ingaborg had only smiled, gently chastised Martha for making such a scene over something "so inconsequential", and regally explained that, in HER organization, "that is what cleaning crews are for, surely". Security stopped Martha from boxing the tall blonde's ears, but supposedly it had been a close call.

April herself had run interference when Ingaborg set her sights on Illya, at least the first time, but the second time the woman had eluded her, thanks to the untimely questions being placed by one of the men from the delegation, William.

Illya had been distracted by the results of a lab experiment, and the infernal woman had slid into the office he shared with Napoleon before he knew it. Mark Slate had seen her enter, and hastened to the door to summon Illya for some bit of made up nonsense, or at least to play gooseberry if that didn't work. He was delayed by the, at first polite, but then surprisingly aggressive actions of two of the delegation absolutely insisting he have a cup of coffee with them and explain some detail of the communication system, but he managed to send them on their way with a few verbal, then one hard physical shove with his shoulder before using an emergency bypass on the latched door. 

He'd tried to not let his jaw drop at what he'd walked in on, this being Illya, not Napoleon; while the Russian was certainly not celibate, he was usually far more discreet, especially in the office. Mark just delivered a quick cough and a fast "so sorry for the interruption, Illya, but it's urgent." 

He was more than a little concerned about the slow reaction from the Russian, those blue eyes seeming almost dazed. Ingaborg had given Mark a tight smile, but her own blue eyes seemed to promise something, perhaps retribution, perhaps something else, in due time. 

Her murmur of "don't be jealous, darling; your turn will come," didn't make him purr with anticipation, as it seemed she would have liked; it rather gave him the shudders. For April to call him that, even in the purely friendly way she meant it, that was one thing; for this woman to do the same, it was cringe-worthy. That slow caress as she passed by him on her way out the door, he could have done without too. It aroused conflicting emotions and inclinations, and he wasn't in the right frame of mind to try and sort them all out.

"Illya, are you alright? I mean, you DID want me to . . .", he asked, Illya still not seeming himself, not even overly embarrassed by what should have been a highly-embarrasing situation.

Illya blinked, seeming to be rousing from some odd lethargy, glanced around, then shook his head, trying to clear it. 

"@*#&@(! Mark?? Yes, Mark, I DID want you to interrupt, and you have my undying gratitude!" 

The first part was in Russian, but Mark had heard enough to recognize sincere cursing when he heard it. 

"I believe we should find Napoleon. I have the feeling we were not given the entire story by Mr. Waverly." 

Illya hesitated at the doorway, looked back at the office. 

"And remind me to have that desk and chair replaced with something from storage. BEFORE I have the need to use it again for the purposes they were meant!"

Mark thought on that scene he'd walked in on and nodded. 

"Not a bad idea, mate; not a bad idea at all. If they aren't up for replacing it, at least a good scrubbing down with Lysol."

Napoleon wasn't all that concerned, it would appear. He'd found the recounting of what had happened in the Translation Department amusing, and just teased Illya about "protesting too much, partner?" upon hearing about Ingaborg and their own office. That neither Illya or Mark found either incident funny he just put down to neither of them being in a good frame of mind for some odd reason.

Mark veered off when he spotted the men who'd approached him outside Illya's office. They were headed, quite nonchalantly, toward a Priority Secure Area, and they had no business there. He rounded a corner, thinking to put them right, only to find himself downed by a hiss of gas exploding from what looked like a fountain pen. He never felt himself hit the floor, and didn't recover consciousness til he came out of the fog tucked up inside a storage closet. Once he got to his communicator, he reported in to his partner, flushing bright red at the humiliation of being caught out like that in his own place of work. While the flush had died away by the time April came to release him, the door having no internal latch, his anger had only increased.

Even after hearing about what had happened to Mark, Illya found Napoleon no more interested in listening to reason than before, and frustrated, decided to head to Security to see what he could learn there about the movements of Ingaborg and the others. 

He found the Security teams gathered around the monitors, alright, but to his disgust, if not his particular surprise, most of the monitors were either trained on Ingaborg and what she was up to right now, or in re-play, showing what she'd BEEN up to. And she had been quite busy, it would appear. There were four different 're-runs' showing on the monitors off to the side. He was stony-faced when he moved over and flipped off the screen that showed HIS little encounter with the woman, glaring ferociously at the three people standing there spell-bound. 

"There are SIX members of this visiting delegation. Would anyone like to enlighten me as to the activities of the other five?"

The on-duty team quickly scurried to the various monitors trying frantically to locate the other four men and one woman. None of them were willing to meet his eyes.

"Uh, Mr. Kuryakin? We've located Mr. Borland's badge; he appears to be in Mr. Waverly's office. We, well, we seem to have lost track of the others."

"Oh, my mistake. I thought this was the Security Department; perhaps I am on the wrong level. Is this perhaps the Janitorial Department?" His voice was icy cold, sending shivers up their spines.

No, he was NOT in a good frame of mind. Snarling, he glared at each of them. "Perhaps you might endeavor to LOCATE them?"

Margrete Larsen was finally spotted in the stenography pool area, assiduously reading a stack of Classified reports from Section II and other areas. Her protestations of "but no one objected," was met with a cold stare from April Dancer, who reached out and plucked a name tag from Margrete's blouse. 

"Jennifer Blankenship. My, how you've changed, Jennifer. And back from vacation so soon! Honeymoon didn't go so well?" 

That steno notebook was removed from Ms. Larsen's purse, and on second thought, the purse as well.

Ms. Larsen was courteously escorted to a well-appointed, but highly secured room, to await her teammates. Somehow April was sure the others would be joining her. "I want a female Security team to search her, thoroughly," April ordered. "Bring in scanners as well; I don't want any hint of anything passing us by."

William was discovered in a stained lab coat, horn-rim glasses slipping down on his nose, happily sipping coffee and chatting away with the others in the Research Department. There was a name tag, of course; not the one he'd been issued, but one in the name of Jeileg Olbermeier.

"You mean he ISN'T our new specialist?" Carmichael blinked in owl-like surprise. "We WERE expecting one, you know," he'd assured a grim faced Mark Slate. "Well, at least we'd put in a request for one a few months back." Carmichael frowned, highly disappointed.

"Yes, Dr. Carmichael, quite sure. Don't you check credentials before you let someone in here?" Mark asked, mentally shaking his head at the look of incomprehension on the supposedly brilliant researcher's face. 

Somewhat mollified (not much, but somewhat) by the hurried reassurances that they'd not gotten around to showing William anything but the coffee pot so far, Mark contacted Security and had the for some reason gently-amused William escorted to join Ms. Larsen in the secure area. After being thoroughly searched, of course. "And scan the bloke, will you?? All kinds of tidbits he could have put his hands on in here!"

Miles Donahue spotted Leon in the cafeteria, laboriously chatting up the head cook about the food supplies, and suppliers, and delivery schedules. A head cook who wasn't all that much interested in chatting, it would appear. Well, Mrs. Brokaw had meals to fix, a malfunctioning broiler to deal with, and she'd never been the friendliest sort to begin with. 

It was the opinion of Security that poor Leon was actually grateful for their intervention, since that bulldog of a woman had just slammed his head into the door for daring to open the pot where she had her soup stock simmering. 

"Sets it back a good half hour, every time some Nosy Nellie wants to take a peek!"

When the team took Leon in hand, well, if they were expecting any appreciation from the Queen of the Kitchens, they were to be disappointed.

"And the whole bloody lot of you, get out of my *#&@(# kitchen!" was her only comment, and they all rapidly took their leave. Leon was delivered to the secure area, after a fast stop in Medical to stop the bleeding. He too got scanned, and various small items were retrieved, to be examined more closely later.

Evan took some time to locate, but eventually a puzzled Kristine Daws had called Janitorial to ask just WHY there was one of the custodial service dusting the file cabinets in the Personnel Records section. 

"We take care of that ourselves, you know, even emptying the waste baskets. If there's to be a change, someone really should have notified us."

After removing a few interesting items from Evan's pockets, including a tiny camera that had obviously been in use, he was escorted out as well, headed for a good searching. 

"And run him through the scanners as well. Beginning to think we shouldn't put ANYTHING past this lot," Mark fumed.

Well, that certainly had been his impression after he'd found Napoleon in what, for anyone else, would have been considered a compromising situation in the third floor conference room. For Napoleon, of course, it was perhaps business as usual, or near enough not to mention.

When Ingaborg had left the lazily smiling senior agent sprawled out on the couch along the wall and approached Mark with a suggestion that made him doubt his own hearing, he knew he'd been right. Though how she'd thought Napoleon was up to anything that strenuous or, for that matter, that complicated, he couldn't figure. No one recovered THAT fast! 

He was torn; he could hardly leave Napoleon here with that female, yet with the turmoil of his own senses, a bizarre mix of indignation, embarrassment, and surging if rather confused lust, he wanted to be gone before he did something totally stupid.

It was NOT reassuring when the door opened and Borland stepped in, gave a sly smile to Ingaborg and said, "yes, my dear? You needed my assistance?" 

The knowing look Borland gave Mark, the semi-comatose Napoleon, clearly assessing their attributes and the possibilities, and the eager little laugh given by the flushed-with-excitement Ingaborg made the breath catch in Mark's throat. He was more than a little relieved when Illya and April came striding through the door, weapons in hand.

"I owe both of you dinner at Venara's. Your choice, no limit!" he exclaimed thankfully, and though they both looked at him rather oddly, they could see he meant every word.

"Medical," Illya pronounced flatly. "Full scan, them as well as their clothes and possession. And they go in different holding cells, from each other AND the other four."

No matter the protests that "Alexander Waverly is NOT going to like this! May I remind you we are guests." 

Illya had simply turned to the Security Guards and said, "please guard them very well. We would not wish any harm to come to them through their inadvertent wandering. We must remember, they are 'guests'."

Then the hastily summoned Security Team took the two away.

"I think we need to discuss a few things with Mr. Waverly," April said. "Well, once Napoleon makes himself more presentable," flicking a quick reproving eye over at the senior agent who was just realizing he was laying there in all his glory for the delectation (or not) of his fellow agents. Frankly, none of them were seeming in the mood for delectation; in fact, they looked decidedly put out. He wiped that rather stupid smile off his face and set about tidying himself enough for a visit with Waverly. Illya made a note to have Janitorial do a thorough job on this room as well.

Waverly looked up from the report he was reading as his four agents came through the door, the expression on their faces showing them intent on getting some answers. 

"Ah, I suppose you are wanting an explanation," he smiled with quiet approval. "I have been following your activities quite closely, you know" ignoring the deep flushes on more than one face in the room. "Well done, I must say! You each played your parts admirably!" 

That managed to openly confuse the four, although whether they were impressed at that compliment was less obvious. In fact, there was more than a hint in more than one's eyes that impressed wasn't perhaps the best word to describe their feelings.

Waverly ignored any such signs, now smiling with deep satisfaction, taking a deep puff on his pipe.

"So, you have my old friend and his team mates in the holding area, and you have either prevented them from obtaining, or have removed any vital information they might have made themselves free with. Very good, very good! AND in record time, I might add. I think this might be a game record, in fact!"

"A game record, sir?" Napoleon asked cautiously, casting a look at his three companions. They looked as bewildered as he felt.

"Yes, all were apprehended, no information was taken, no one escaped. That doesn't happen so very often, you see. And the last time it happened this QUICKLY was during the games in '56, as I recall, when Borland infiltrated the Edinburgh offices of, well, nevermind that. Of course, I scooped the prize a few times myself, noteably from Jerome Crossman in '29, and from Borland in '59; I had a very fine team that time around, specially picked to be able to resist the lovely Ms. Jensen, and withstand the wiles of their dashing leader. As well as demonstrating their own wiles, naturally."

Waverly's smile was lofty with self-satisfaction as he stroked his moustache with the knuckle of one finger. 

"Of course, I was rather dashing myself, as I recollect; had a few wiles of my own." 

No one really knew what to say, but it turned out they didn't have to say anything. Another voice broke into the conversation.

"Borland. Ms. Jensen. Karl Borland? Ingaborg Jensen? Alexander!Really! How long do you intend these 'games' to continue? It would seem to me that both you and Karl Borland and your sophomoric friends are rather past the 'I Spy' games you put into place during your term together at University."

Miriam Walker Waverly walked into the room, crisply removing her gloves. "April, Mark, Napoleon, Illya. Good day."

They gave their smiling greetings and silently started to edge their way toward the door. Something told them their superior just might prefer not to have any witnesses to the conversation about to take place. An approving nod from Mrs. Waverly confirmed she, too, would prefer privacy.

They were halfway through when they heard it start up; as one, they paused, then stopped.

"And I must admit I am shocked at Lisa Rogers' not putting a stop to this nonsense. Oh, at a small branch office, yes, perhaps, but at Headquarters? But I didn't see Ms. Rogers out there; is she perhaps away, Alexander? Is that why those young people had to go to the effort of putting a spoke in whatever wheel Borland and his, um, 'associate' put into motion?"

There was a murmur from Waverly, too faint for them to hear. Yes, they should have moved away, but somehow, none of them did.

"Oh, don't give me that! They've been put through the ringer, all four of them, from the looks of it! And only Napoleon looks like he found any pleasure in the doing, though I suppose that's only to be expected! And everyone else around here is as jumpy as a cat! How a man can be so stodgy at times and so utterly childish at others I simply cannot understand! And I will tell you one thing, Alexander, while there are some things I am willing to overlook, I warn you, if I see any traces YOU'VE been more personally involved, other than watching from the sidelines after setting up this ridiculous affair, I am going to be most displeased."

Another murmur, perhaps even lower, but somehow a protest was evident in there somewhere.

"Oh, I can see there are no lipstick traces. Well, at least where I could easily see them, anyway! I'd better not find any anywhere else, either, nor traces of perfume. No, and no evidence of whisker burn or cologne, either, or anything else, in case you think I don't know quite well . . ."

That was when the four agents regained their ability to move their legs and made their way safely into the antechamber and down the hall.

April cleared her throat, "well, that was awkward, I must say."

Before the silence became deafening, Mark changed the subject to something as far away as he could think from the 'Borland delegation' and the current turmoil, certainly from that conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Waverly.

"Your informant who was here earlier - anything of special interest, April-luv?" 

He hadn't met the man, none of them had, April having met him at the Security Desk and taken him in tow from there.

April blinked, then remembered. 

"Oh, no. Just touching base, you know. Mustn't let the contacts grow stale, I've been told."

Her 'informant' had been nothing of the sort, at least not in the usual sense; just someone she'd asked to give an 'expert' opinion on Ingaborg Jensen. Well, it just wasn't NATURAL for a woman to create THAT much of turmoil in such a short time, and besides, there were those very disturbing vibrations April had been getting. And, of course, Cousin Callie wasn't a man, just very good at impersonating one; according to Cousin Caeide, she'd had a lot of experience, especially during the War.

Cally had heard her out, had entered Headquarters as one of April's 'informants', arranged to pass close to Ingaborg, had even exchanged a polite word or two. 

Later, in April's apartment, she told her hostess.

"Human, yes, but with a goodly trace of Other. It's not that uncommon, actually. Blood gets mixed, blended, talent dims, fades but rarely totally disappears. History gets lost, though, either on purpose or simply by the weight of the ages. Eventually it's not beyond the scope of reason to expect a descendent of those with true Power to be mostly unaware. Even if they have a few remnants, without the knowledge of what those remnants are, what they as a people once were, what they perhaps have the capability to grow into, they have little more than enhancements of the traits others more mundane might have."

"It's only because of our own long oral and written history that WE have knowledge of just what might be accomplished, April. For us, we KNOW that one of our ancestors did this, another did that, multiplied by hundreds and hundreds of years, of course. Our Archives are vast, and full of such knowledge. We KNOW the power that others like us wielded, in many cases still wield; we know that, theoretically at least, the power is there for us to reach out and touch. We are taught to search within ourselves for those powers, are trained to exercise and grow and expand those powers, to add our experiences to those Archives to be of benefit to future generations of the Clan. Because of that, each generation has those who have power, of various kinds, and that inspires the others as well, as each new generation."

"For Ingaborg, I imagine all she comprehends is that she has always had a greater appeal to the male of the species than many, indeed most other women. Knows she is capable of both tempting them and leading them astray quite easily, even of inducing a state of susceptibility in which they are most 'agreeable' to whatever she suggests. If she had greater knowledge of what her forebears truly were capable of, believe me, she would be much more dangerous."

April shook her head in wonder. "Then you believe she truly IS capable of more?"

"Oh, yes, the seed is there, the tendrils of power. It is just that while she may feel them, perhaps feels the frustration of an indiscernible something being just out of reach, she doesn't really understand WHAT that might be. If she did, it would be well within her power to keep experimenting until she uncovers new depths. It might be wise to keep a discreet eye on her, just in case she ever DOES make that leap."

Cally sipped at the truly excellent bourbon she'd brought April as a gift. That little family distillery, started during the War, had grown, was developing a devoted gallery of admirers. While the first fruits would always be allocated to Family, then to Friends, still the income from the extremely expensive private label spirits they produced was contributing nicely to the Clan coffers. April was practically purring over her glass, though knowing she'd need to limit herself far more than Cally would. That was a very potent product indeed!

"Oh, speaking of the seeds of power, April, Caeide sent you a gift. She says you will probably find it useful in the future. She's not one who can Far See, you know, but our Caeide does have dreams, and we've learned to pay attention to her dreams. Seems the Sweet Mother has taken a fancy to you, thinks you might need a little special assistance now and again."

She held out an intricately fashioned charm bracelet.

"Caeide commissioned this for you based on her dream, after getting permission from the Grandmother. It took awhile for it to be prepared; it's not just a matter of putting in an order to a metalsmith or a jeweler, not something like this. It took a great number of hands, a number of favors petitioned, power infused. But it arrived after your last conversation with her, and she asked that I bring it to you. Call her, as soon as possible. She has a few things to tell you, I believe, all worth listening to. Wear it, preferably at all times, April. Test what it can tell you; perhaps a tour of what I think are called 'hot spots', places where the past and the not-quite-human or corporeal are rumored to be found. Learn how to read its signals. It will do you little good locked away in a jewelry box."

The bracelet was very pretty, bronze metal chain links and carved bronze lozenges alternating, though the charms on it were unusual, not what you'd find on most such articles in the jewelry stores. Small figures and symbols, most not even half an inch tall, all of that same bronze, but some with the addition of tiny chips of what might be jewels. 

April took it with pleasure, running her finger over each of the charms, feeling an odd sort of tingle as she did so. Raising her brows she looked the question at Cally, only to get a rueful smile. 

"Oh, don't ask me. Part of the problem to being able to 'see' other types of power, magic, is that it pretty well blinds me to Clan-generated objects of power. There's always a trade-off, you see; no one has EVERY talent, no one receives a talent without giving up something in return. As for your pretty bracelet there, I can feel SOMETHING, but I can't begin to tell you what, only that it is Clan in origin."

***  
April stroked that bracelet now, while the other three agents sat in her living room to discuss the recent events.

Napoleon nursed his drink, glowering into the smoky liquour. 

"A game. We went through all that, because the Old Man and Karl Borland were playing a game??!"

"It would appear so. A very long running game, in fact, one that started when they were at university together. And not just the two of them; I gather there are five total involved. All very 'old school tie' chaps, ones you wouldn't really think would get involved in this sort of thing." Mark's voice was ironic in tone, his face expressive of his feelings at the whole notion.

Illya wasn't any more pleased than Napoleon. For Waverly to play such games! Waverly! Who'd often chided the members of his staff about attending to their duty, eschewing nonsensical distractions; frankly, it really was a lot to swallow. He'd been led down more blind alleys the past few days than he wanted to admit, and it was a blow to his self-respect, to say the least. 

He was still trying to forget that interlude with the lovely Ingaborg; he still couldn't understand how he'd let himself get in that position. Although, of course, he was most grateful to Mark Slate for pulling him out before things got totally out of hand! Well, yes, perhaps they HAD gotten out of hand, but at least Mark had put an end to it.

Mark wasn't any too happy, certainly. Waverly had relented enough in his triumph to give them at least a brief explanation of their roles. 

"One encounter per year, alternating between the five opponents. One playing offense, the other defense, the others on the sidelines. 

"Two, the more experience of the four the defending team is allowed to field, acting as decoy, you see, to counter the offending team's primary player, THEIR decoy. Another two defenders, the juniors, running interference, you might say, their attention also directed to the three playing decoy. No one else is given any heads-up, no hints, nothing. Even those four are given the bare minimum, just their instructions, nothing of the game itself, its objectives. Nothing to alert them to the intentions of the four less obvious players on the offensive team. All full open cooperation. And nothing too harsh, too rough, involved, of course. It would hardly be cricket otherwise, you see."

Well, to Mark's mind, running interference had been a little rough on 'the juniors' in a lot of ways, perhaps even one of the 'seniors'. Even now understanding the purpose behind those very odd instructions Waverly had given him and his partner hadn't eased the pain, if anything, made it worse considering their superior's frequent complaints about HIS lack of seriousness.

He glumly admitted his own frustration. "Don't know what April and I ended up doing could be called. I know Waverly called us 'defenders'; Coleman said it was like clowns at a rodeo, keeping the bull away from the rider once he'd been thrown; Fanning said it was a classic stalking horse manoeuvre. Either way, I found it bloody uncomfortable by the time it was all over, not to mention embarrassing." 

He omitted the word 'humiliating', though it was certainly in the back of his mind.

He wasn't sure he wanted to admit just HOW embarrassed and uncomfortable he'd been, either. The lovely Ingaborg had made him sizzle and burn with lust, even as his mind recoiled from her. That a woman could be that physically alluring and at the same time emotionally repellent, that just didn't seem right. The open mockery in her eyes hadn't helped matters much, or that lingering caress that seemed to taunt him. Even as she'd turned and headed back in Napoleon's direction, inviting Borland to . . . Well, he was trying very hard to scrape out of his memory what she had been inviting Borland to participate in.

It didn't add to his self image that, while trying to run interference for Illya, he'd walked into that ambush by two of her confederates, ending up waking up in a dark closet, trying to figure out just what the hell had happened. 

Overall, he was surprised his partner hadn't just written him off as a total idiot, and he thought that would be a shame. He had a feeling the two of them would be able to rub along together quite well, but not if she decided this was typical of his behavior and level of intelligence. So far, though, she hadn't given any indication that she was thinking in that direction, so that was something, anyway.

April sipped gracefully at her glass of white wine, thinking how much nicer it would have been if she'd had the nerve to pour herself a glass of that good bourbon rather than the white wine, maybe even the whiskey the others were drinking. But she was still fairly new to UNCLE, to the New York office, just getting to know her fellow agents, and her partner, and a stiff shot of private label bourbon just wouldn't have fit the image she'd decided she needed to portray.

She struggled with what to say, how MUCH to say. They were obviously smarting; their male egos had been bruised, along with their professional pride. If it had all happened on an assignment, without so many observing, that would have been bad enough, certainly. But to find out they'd been set up, at least partly, by Alexander Waverly, and in their own territory, that was a bit much. 

That this was all part of a long-running game, a sort of five-way annual 'Olympics', between Waverly and his old school chums, well, somehow that wasn't something she, or any of them, would have been expecting from their sternly dignified superior. She found herself quite disappointed in him, as a matter of fact.

She wanted to reassure them, help salve those wounds, but that was going to be a bit tricky. {"Like Caeide's sister says, a successful con always contains some truth, and the more, the better for your chances of success. So, here goes!"}

"Pheromones, darlings. Pheromones, and some very clever, very experienced seduction techniques, and some well planned out assistance from her colleagues, and some wilful blindness on the part of Mr. Waverly and the absence of Lisa Rogers; all according to the rules of the 'game', of course. Thankfully, nothing more sinister than that," she'd reassured the sheepish men sharing drinks with her. "And, after all, when the briefing we were given was actually INTENDED to mislead us, we were at a very grave disadvantage."

Well, April hadn't been too sure of that in the beginning, that it was only pheromones, not with the very uneasy vibes she'd been getting. Somehow the lovely Ms. Jensen aroused not just her curiosity but her antipathy, almost at an instinctive, even primitive level. Yes, most of the women at Headquarters had somewhat of the same reaction, but April wasn't given to such immediate dislike of another woman, not viewing them as competition on a personal level. 

Yet, she'd found herself wanting to warn the visitor away from HER territory, her partner, her friends, even just her co-workers and the entire premises. If you could call the sincere temptation to claw out Ingaborg's eyes and go for her throat next, a 'warning'.

Anyway she was partly telling the truth, though she had no intention of completely leveling with the men, no matter how fond she was becoming of them. 

Talking about creating the wrong impression! Going about prattling of anything of a 'woo-woo' nature would have surely been totally unacceptable. 

Little did she know just how often her companions had encountered such things, them not being so eager to share such stories with a fledgling agent who might think they were making fun of her inexperience or just being foolish. 

Later they would all think back and realize they would all have been better off being a little more open with each other, but hindsight is, as they say, twenty-twenty.

Luckily Cousin Caeide, upon picking up the phone and listening to the description April had given of the visitors, her reaction to Ingaborg, other peoples' reactions, had offered help in the form of another cousin, Cally, who was seemingly somewhat an expert in weeding out the chemically sinister, from the naturally-occuring but human sinister, from the 'Other' sort of sinister. 

Well, April had thought it best to be sure; the experiences of the past few days (had it REALLY only been a few days??! It seemed much longer!) she remembered more than a few of Caeide's stories, about the wide variety of 'Others', including that empusa and the sirens who'd tried to make free and easy with the O'Donnell sisters' men, and the 'visitors' who tried to lead Peter astray when he and Andrew had been alone at the homestead, plus others. Female sirens of the human sort April felt relatively capable of dealing with, a little firm, but lady-like, decisive action would usually suffice. The ones more likely to be encountered in the pages of mythology would require some more expert help, but the first step was making a clear distinction and identification.

She wouldn't have been surprised at anything Cally told her, what with her wanting to spit and snarl at what she knew about Ingaborg's interactions with the UNCLE personnel. 

Well, luckily for everyone, no matter Waverly's 'genial host' instructions, the men and women from UNCLE were NOT fools. While Ingaborg had been laying waste to the men and infuriating the women, enough sense of priority had allowed them to stymie the others of the delegation from taking pictures in the equipment rooms, and tampering with the translation machines, and other intrusive actions not commonly expected from a host. Well, yes, more than one guest has browsed uninvited through a medicine cabinet or a pantry, but this really was taking things much too far!

April smiled as she sipped her wine, noting the reduced level of tension in the three men sharing the space. No, they wouldn't forget, but maybe this would serve as a lesson to make them more cautious in the future. Well, Napoleon certainly could use an extra dose of caution where the femmes were concerned. Illya already showed a great deal of that, of course. And as for Mark, well, she'd been impressed that he'd been able to keep his mind on the job, what with the lovely Ingaborg and her tricks, no matter that incident with the closet. Yes, she and her partner were going to do quite well together.

As for her, well, she intended to get her partner to take her on a tour of the so-called 'hot spots' the next time they were in London. She was eager to test that lovely new bracelet to see just how reactive it was. 

{"Cousin Caeide gives the most delightful presents,"} she thought with satisfaction. {"So it looks like I was truly 'charmed' after all!"}.

If the other three noticed that sudden smirk of amusement, they didn't mention it.


End file.
